Burst
by thepessimisticwriter
Summary: He's got all his feelings locked away.
1. Chapter 1

"Oh, you had the hell dream… was I in it?"

Elder McKinley doesn't think much of it when Price blushes deeply- from what he's seen of him, he blushes rather a lot for someone so outwardly self confident. He stammers out a half-baked excuse, something about doing chores (McKinley will _always_ let someone go if they say they're doing chores, it's one of his weaknesses), and walks away quickly. McKinley had assumed that'd be the end of it- it was more of a joke than anything else, anyway.

But the flush returns with a vengeance every time they so much as talk for a week straight, and it's getting concerning.

McKinley confronts him- he has to. He prides himself on running a tight ship, as it were; Price is still studiously avoiding him, and (speaking as his mission commander), that will certainly not do.

"Elder Price-"

He's quite sure that Price had not noticed McKinley follow him out, but now he's gotten him cornered by the trash bins. The elder jumps about a foot in the air.

"You are ignoring me." It's a statement, not a question. Price blushes deeply, again. McKinley frowns. "Is this about your hell dream? I know they're a touchy subject, and I won't bring it up again if that's what you want."

"Uh-" He looks mortified, but sighs, shoulders slumping. "Yeah. You were in my hell dream. I'd rather not talk about it."

Mckinley smiles pleasantly. "Of course, elder. Just checking." He waits for a moment, hands clasped in front of him, but he doesn't look like he's going to say anything more.

"How do you turn it off?" asks Price quietly, just as McKinley turns to go. He pauses.

"Turn what off?"

"Everything. Feelings, emotions, the dreams… everything."

Connor sighs, hitches his dropped grin up again before turning back around. "Oh, I'm afraid the dreams don't turn off. Believe me, I've tried. As for the rest- lock it up in your mind. Put everything into a box, as it were, and don't let it open for anything."

"Lock it all up? In one box?" Prince sounds skeptical. "Won't it burst at some point?"

"Of course not," says McKinley tetchily. "It's just a metaphor. Build whatever container you want."

"But won't any container break open eventually? I mean, you can't just put everything in one box and expect it all to fit-"

"It does," snaps Connor. "I've been doing this since I was six- I assure you, it's never ' _burst_ '."

Elder Price is watching him with an odd look in his eye. Pity? "Maybe it's about time, then."

He sucks in a sharp breath before schooling his expression into its normal placid smile. "Don't be silly, Elder Price. Shall we go inside?"

He's still looking at him with that off expression, but he nods.

—

It happens nearly a month later.

He's at breakfast, just buttering a piece of toast, and he drops it. It's fine, he's done this before- obviously. It's fine.

But he can't stop staring at it, and something wells up in his eyes, and he's whispering things like "Oh _hell_ , oh _hell_ , oh _hell_ " even though he is not supposed to say that, he's _not_.

The others freeze, conversations dying out but he doesn't care- he doesn't care about his toast, either, not at all, but now there're tears streaming down his cheeks and his hands are shaking where they're pressed over his eyes and his mouth.

"Elder McKinley?" asks a tentative voice, which jolts him back into reality (or, at least, it stifles the words falling from his lips). When he doesn't respond, besides lapsing into another round of tears, they shuffle silently from the kitchen.

He spends the rest of the day curled under his blankets, staring blankly at the wall (even though he has work to do) and that night his hell dream is so bad that he knows he's woken everyone else with his screams, even if they're too polite to mention it.

—

Conner doesn't cry, ever, because he _doesn't_.

He has his tears locked up somewhere, shoved way down in the corner of the box. It was one of the earliest things to be turned off; his father and his constant muttering on how _real men don't cry_ and _real men don't_ -

Real men don't do the things that Connor does, is what he means, but all he can do is lock down the things he can fix.

And now he keeps crying, at everything, like his body's trying to make up for all the times it hadn't before.

Maybe it's because the hell dreams have gotten worse- so much worse it's amazing that Connor ever thought he had it bad. In his dreams, they throw stones at him, now, they say horrible things, they burn him, they _hurt_ him-

 _They_ being the other elders. _They_ being his family, really- or as good as he's got, what with disappointed parents and siblings old enough they're already out of the house. ( _They_ being Elder Price, with his sweetly concerned eyes and impossible sadness when he finds Connor whizzing madly about at three in the morning because he has to clean this, and he has to reorganize the papers on the desk (and why not the entire desk, while he's at it? And if he has all that done, why not the living room besides?), and he has to open close open close _open close openclose_ the cupboards until he's sure something's going to break.) (Himself or the cupboard? He doesn't know.) (He'd though he'd locked that away too.)

—

"Elder McKinley, don't you think it's time to go to bed?"

Price is standing in the doorway, because obviously he is, listening to the steady squeak-thump squeak-thump squeak-thump of the cabinet over and over and over again.

"Of course," he says, smiling brightly. "I just have to finish up."

"Finish what?"

And Connor's face crumples, just a little bit, because he has no idea what he has to finish. His smile stays firmly in place. "This. I'll go back to bed in a minute." In thirty minutes. In an hour. In the morning, he'll go back to bed, and pretend to sleep, and get up with a thousand half-thoughts in his head because they're all escaping now and tearing him apart.

"McKinley…" he's right there, with his sleep mussed hair and pretty blue eyes and jawline dusted with stubble, unreadable expression on his handsome face-

No. _Stop_.

His leg muscles give out, and he collapses to the floor with his head buried in his hands. He taps his toe and counts the beats, frantically, trying to get his breathing under control because it's all coming back now, all the teasing and all the disappointed looks and when his father screamed at him that he doesn't want a son who dresses like a freak-

"McKinley, we're all worried about you-"

His head snaps up. He's lost count, again, and he's tapping his toes like a metronome, and "It's fine! I'm fine! I'll just turn it off. I'll just-" his voice catches on a sob, on a whimper, on the horrible realization that he's burst open and he can't gather the pieces back together. "Please go away."

"Mc-"

" _Please_." He's so tired.

Price sighs, shuffles his feet. "Alright, if you really want me too." And then he waits, like Connor's going to change his mind. (He's not.)

He starts to whisper out loud, with the dull beat of his toes on the wood floor. "One, two, three, four, five, six…"

He's at 183 when he finally hears him leave.

—

It's so hot and Connor's so dizzy.

He's not been sleeping- how could he?- and he's not been eating- he's nauseous, horribly so- and he's just trying to keep his head up and nod along with Elder Cunningham with a smile on his face, and-

has it always been this hard?

He realizes he's swaying when his shoulder bumps into Poptart's own.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and does his best to right himself. Oh, he really does feel unwell.

"And the Jedi master finally defeated the Death Eaters…"

His words are drowned out by a thick, heavy buzzing, pulsing in Connor's ears, and he stumbles again, this time backwards. Cunningham pauses, glancing over. Connor stands, teetering for a moment- he feels awful, he feels awful-

And he collapses, unconscious before he even hits the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

There's total silence for maybe 5 seconds- they're all just staring, unable to react- and then everything interrupts into chaos.

Most of the Elders have never seen anyone faint before, so they're useless. They flutter around him, knock into each other, get into the way of the Ugandans already checking Connor over.

They roll him onto his back and check his breathing, then pick him up and transfer him to the shade. He looks tiny- frail and puny and fragile (all words that would definitely not have described him a month ago.) The Elders gather quietly around him, eyes wide and horrified.

"Give him some space."

"But-"

Gotswana glares. "He will wake soon. Give him some _space_."

He moans in his sleep, confirming the doctor's words, and his arm flops out.

"Is he- dreaming?"

Gotswana frowns. "He shouldn't be." He checks Mckinley's pulse again, then his temperature, and his frown deepens. "When has he last slept?"

The Elders glance at each other guiltily. "He's not-"

"Or eaten."

Price swallows. "He's been having his nightmares."

On the ground between them, Connor gasps weakly and makes a move like he's trying to turn over. The Elders all make involuntary moves towards him.

The doctor takes several deep breaths, then clenches his fist. "You are _fools_ \- you are in Africa now, you can't go for days without sleeping or eating or drinking water like you can in America."

"He's been having his nightmares," repeats Price defensively. "And... other things."

"Take him back to your house," Gotswana says. "He'll wake soon, but likely he won't be able to walk very well. Make him rest, make him eat-" He holds up McKinley's limp wrist and shakes it slightly. "His heartbeat's up, that's a bad sign."

"And the fainting, that's a pretty bad sign too," mutters Cunningham. Gotswana glares.

"You-"

"Guys," says Poptarts, catching their attention. Connor's eyes are open, but strangely blank. The elders fall all over him, fussing and helping him to his unsteady feet.

He doesn't say anything, and they fall silent one by one. His usually neat hair is a mess, and his eyes are wild, and his smile is stretched too wide.

"Elder McKinley?" asks Elder Zelder tentatively, and steps back when his mission leader turns those eyes on him. "Are you-"

They all rush forwards as his knees buckle again, catching him under his elbows. He sways, never losing that manic look. He's shaking.

"What're you all doing standing around me? Come on, boys, let's get out! You look worried," Connor says, focusing on Price. "You don't have to be. Just turn it off!"

"McKinley, you're not... we're taking you back home, okay?" Elder Poptarts ducks under his arm and holds him up. He tries to jerk away.

"No, I'm _fine_ \- no, get _off_ of me," he snaps; his blue eyes turn hard, then seem to melt (or maybe crack). "You've got to- turn it _off_ -"

And then he doubles over, retching dryly, and collapses for the second time that day.

He mumbles in his fever dreams, about fire and pain and everything he tries to keep deep down inside himself.

(There's a lot. There's Steve, for one, and there's his countless hours spent alone with only his thoughts for company.) (His thoughts are not happy.)

Poptarts sits vigil at his bedside, holding his hand, with tears puddled in his eyes. (They all know about his sister, all know that he's doing this partly because he didn't for her.)

Kevin spends as much time as he can in there too, although he doesn't really know why. (Maybe he feels guilty.) At any rate, he putters around the room, tidying the already scrupulously neat dresser and desk just for something to do. When Elder Thomas leaves for bathroom breaks, Kevin takes his place at Connor's side- smoothing ginger hair off his damp brow, squeezing his hand when he starts tossing again. Talking to him in his most soothing voice when he gets worked up again.

Kevin's only now beginning to realize just how much the mission leader's had under wraps- how much he hides every single day.

"I'll behave," is his most common whisper (or whimper). "I know it's a sin. I'm not, I'm _not_ -"

"I know you're not, McKinley," he murmurs. "You're not, it's okay-" (When Poptarts comes back in, he asks what his real name is. It feels too impersonal to call him by his last name, even if it is proper.)

He won't drink anything unless they hold him up and coax him through every single sip- and by every sip, Kevin means _every_ sip. He turns his head away, mewling weakly, until they're able to actually get whatever it is in his mouth. Water, mostly, but sometimes tea. Or broth, although his stomach usually doesn't hold that for long.

It's the middle of summer, and they're all miserable.

Kevin lies stretched out of the (mercifully shaded) couch, grinding the heels of his palm into his eyes. He's exhausted- he's not slept a wink in nearly a day- and the almost-softness of the couch feels so good compared to the dining chair they'd dragged to Connor's bedside that he's nearly asleep by the time he hears footsteps tentatively approach. He sighs- can he get away with just pretending to be asleep? Probably not- and cracks open his eyes.

Connor's swaying in the doorway, flushed pink with fever. Kevin curses softly to himself- Poptarts must have fallen asleep, again- and drags himself off the couch reluctantly.

"What're you doing up?"

He shakes his head, eyes glassy, and Kevin darts forward to catch him before he falls.

"Hey, now- let's get you back to bed, okay?"

"No," whimpers Connor, relaxing all his muscles at once so Kevin has to grab at him to keep him up. "Stay."

"Why on earth would you rather the couch over your room?" asks Kevin, but lugs him over anyway. Connor just blinks at him, slowly. It's better than yesterday, he supposes. Yesterday was hallucinations. "Are you going to do anything while you're out here, or..."

Connor yawns, still staring at Kevin. It's almost unsettling.

"Alright," he says. Sometimes Connor talks at them, without his normal reservations, but it doesn't look like today's one of those days. "How about-"

"It's the worst with you."

Right. You can never judge too soon.

"What's the worst with me?"

"It," he says, gesturing vaguely. "It. Light bulbs, boxes, pretending- 'm still good at pretending," he cautions Kevin, lifting up a drooping finger, "but... it's harder. So I had to try harder. Try more, _lock_ more- like Steve! But less..." Connor chews his dry lip. "Less... young. Less-"

"Con, you're not making sense."

"'You got a lot of stuff packed away'," says Connor, and it sounds like he's quoting someone. "'Lot's of stuff all packed up'. That's me, isn't it?" And there are tears shimmering on his eyelids again. "It's all out now. All of it. I've been- lying's a _sin_ , and that's all I've been doing. And I go to hell in my dreams but now I'm _really_ going, and it's-"

"Hey," Kevin says, and grabs his hand on a whim. Connor hisses and jerks back like he's been burned, tears spilling over, and Kevin's heart aches for him. "You're not going to hell, okay?"

"Already do," he mumbles. "Already do, it's _horrible_ \- you've been, right?" His eyes flick up to Kevin's, but they're cloudy and not-quite-there. "I was there, you said. What was I doing?"

"Dancing," murmurs Kevin guiltily. "You were dancing."

"I like dancing," he sighs, so softly it's almost hard to hear- and then he closes his eyes and burrows into Kevin's chest before he can stop him.

He's uncomfortably warm, especially for summer in Uganda... but Kevin doesn't have the heart to get up. (Plus, he's completely drained.)

In moments, they're both snoring.


End file.
